La Huérfana

Sabrina buttoned her red blazer and tucked her short dark hair behind her ears, her beaded bracelets jangling on her wrist. Content with her interview outfit she busied herself with gathering up the rest of her items in the hotel room.

Carefully she slipped a small print collection of her own paintings into her portfolio bag. Each one featuring a face that had caused the world to stop for a minute: the violinist in Central Park lost to music he poured out to apathetic tourists, the old woman sitting alone on the train with her nose buried in a book, and the little girl playing in the puddle outside Sabrina’s apartment in Providence.

Her eyes lingered on the final one: a boy with a guitar that was too big for him, his small fingers touching the strings and a look of reverence on his face. She gently slid him into his place beside the others.

Then she quickly stacked the copies of photos and articles about Daniel Montoya she’d been studying. His new collection had created quite a buzz all over the country. He just finished a tour through California and the northwest. And soon he’d be at the Rhode Island School of Design’s museum as part of his east coast tour.

Her eyes were immediately drawn again to the photo of one particular painting in his new collection. La Huérfana. It was the painting that had led her to fight for the privilege to conduct this interview. There was usually competition for such opportunities among painting students at RISD. Interviews with successful artists could become doorways into internships or even collaborations. But something about his one painting had struck her to her core and after presenting a thorough analysis of the piece, the exhibition director had selected her to interview Montoya. With the photo of La Huérfana at the top of the stack she shoved the papers into another compartment of the bag.

Hoisting her travel satchel on one shoulder, her portfolio bag on the other, and her camera around her neck she bid her hotel room overlooking the plaza farewell.

As she walked the few blocks to Montoya’s studio, she soaked in the sights of Santa Fe’s eclectic architecture – pueblo shop buildings beside gothic style churches. She snapped photos of the brown and yellow buildings adorned with green trees against a backdrop of blue sky. She even dared to take a few snapshots of some locals: a boutique owner arranging a display outside her shop, an old man with his dachshund strolling along the plaza, and a businessman sipping his morning coffee on a bench.

When she arrived at the gallery there were several people milling about studying the artwork. She was tempted to follow suit, but it was nearly time for her appointment so she made her way to a receptionist desk in the center of the brightly lit room.

“Good morning,” Sabrina said to the middle-aged woman sitting behind the desk.

“Hello,” the woman replied. “Welcome to the Daniel Montoya Gallery, what can I do for you?”

“I have an appointment for an interview with Mr. Montoya at ten o’clock. I’m from the Rhode Island School of Design. I’m writing a piece for our art publication and creating some promotional materials for the exhibition.”

The receptionist looked at a calendar on the desk. “Ah, yes, here you are. Sabrina Morales. You can take the stairs behind me up to the studio room. Just ring the buzzer and he’ll let you in.”

“Thank you so much,” Sabrina said with a smile.

On the landing at the top of the stairs Sabrina pressed the buzzer button and then fidgeted with her bracelets as she waited. She stilled herself as she watched a slender man wearing a salmon button up and pinstripe trousers stroll toward the glass door. His hair was full and it cascaded sleekly to the base of his neck and only the faintest signs of wrinkles creased his forehead.

He swung the door open and said gruffly, “Ah, another big city pigeon has flown south and landed at my doorstep. Come in.”

Sabrina smiled awkwardly, unaccustomed to being compared to a pigeon. “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Montoya,” she said as she followed him into the studio.

He waved his hand at her words. “Can’t say I’m doing you any favor. These meetings are unavoidable when you undertake an exhibition tour. Let’s have a seat and you can ask your questions.”

The studio was full of natural light streaming in through the many windows. Several canvases were arranged on easels. Some boasted streaks of color and others reveled in their stark whiteness, almost daring the painter inside her to launch a conquest. The space was certainly more welcoming than the artist that occupied it.

“Which school are you from again?” Mr. Montoya asked.

“RISD.”

“Well, at least it’s not another New York one,” he remarked. “Where are you from?”

Sabrina tugged her hair tighter behind her ears, “New York.”

“Ah, well, I suppose you can’t really help that, can you?” he said.

“No, I suppose not,” Sabrina declared. “I take it you’re not a fan of the northeast.”

Mr. Montoya shook his head. “Too snobbish. Too gray. Too crowded. It’s positively smothering. But for some reason it’s still the capital of art, so I have to stomach my distaste for it.”

“I see,” Sabrina said. She retrieved her phone from her blazer pocket and a notebook from her portfolio bag. “Perhaps we can get started. Do you mind if I voice record?”

Montoya waved his hand dismissively again.

Sabrina launched into her questions, starting with the basics about his artistic style, chosen medium, and influences. Montoya answered each one but there was no mistaking the undercurrent of annoyance in his tone. Sabrina scanned her list of questions quickly deciding some she could cut to get this ordeal over with.

“This collection you currently have on exhibit has really captured attention across the country,” Sabrina said. “You’ve titled it Los Perdidos. What is the inspiration behind the collection?”

Without a moment of hesitation Montoya replied with a rehearsed response, “It’s a collection of faces who’ve been dehumanized during this era of immigration conflict. People on all sides of the issue.”

Sabrina expected as much, she’d seen such a description in other interview pieces. So she asked a question she hadn’t come across an answer to. “Out of all the pieces in the collection the one that has truly stunned viewers is La Huérfana. Who is she?”

Montoya paused for a moment and then said, “She’s a representative of those children separated from their families because of deportation or separation at border crossings.”

“Did you have a model for the portrait?”

Montoya shook his head. “No, she’s a face I’ve imagined, put together from the faces of so many young girls.”

“Was there anything special about painting La Huérfana compared to the other pieces in the collection?”

“No, I can’t say that there was. Sometimes as an artist you don’t know which pieces viewers will connect with in a special way. I guess I just got lucky with La Huérfana.”

As with everything else that had come out of Montoya’s mouth that morning, his answer was disappointing. Sabrina asked a few more follow up questions and then brought the interview to a close. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Montoya. The RISD museum eagerly anticipates the arrival of your exhibition.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. – sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

Sabrina smiled stiffly, “Morales. Sabrina Morales.”

“Right then. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Sabrina gave him a puzzled look.

“I see you’ve brought a portfolio bag with you. Aren’t you going to ask me to look over your work? All the other students do.”

Sabrina was embarrassed by the fact that she had hoped to do just that. But after the way the interview had gone, she couldn’t imagine a bigger waste of time. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“How refreshing,” Montoya said. “Someone who’s aware that they’re not ready to share their work yet.”

Sabrina felt a compulsion to correct him, but swallowed it.

“If you’re still here this evening,” he continued. “I’m teaching a small class to some residents from the Santa Fe Art Institute. They’re no RISD students, but if that doesn’t deter you, you’re welcome to join for the session.”

Sabrina then had to suppress the urge to tell him what exactly would deter her from attending his class. “I’m afraid my flight leaves this afternoon.”

“Too bad,” he said. “Have a safe trip back east, Ms. –” he snapped his fingers as if to jog his memory.

“Morales,” Sabrina finished for him.

He pointed at her and nodded. “Feel free to look around the gallery before you leave.”

“I certainly will,” she said as she gathered her things and hastened out of the studio.

At the bottom of the stairs she released a sigh and tried to roll the tension out of her shoulders. Given the last thirty minutes, she was less than thrilled about examining the collection in person. But even if the artist was an arrogant jerk, she did still want to see La Huérfana close up.

She perused some of the other portraits for a few minutes: a farm laborer, a politician, a couple with a baby, a border patrol officer. Then she arrived at the portrait of a little girl with her hand outstretched as though she was begging the viewer to take hold of it.

Sabrina couldn’t take her eyes away. She admired the portrait from afar and then gradually crept closer to look at the details. The other pieces were beautiful, but this one was arresting on a different level. And as she stared at the piece she realized it wasn’t just the subject that made it so striking, but the technique of it seemed superior too. Almost as if…

She took a step back. Trying to remain composed, she strolled back to the other paintings she’d just viewed. But this time she bent her face forward, analyzing key areas of each canvas. Her heart was racing. Then she returned to La Huérfana. She leaned in until her face was mere inches from the painted surface. She let out the smallest of gasps, not wanting to attract attention. Her eyes remained fixated on a small area of brush strokes in the bottom right corner.

Left-handed.

“Excuse me, miss,” said a deep voice.

Sabrina stood up straight and put her hand on her chest. She turned to face a man in his mid forties who wore a badge that said “Security & Custodial”. He was small in stature but strong and sturdy. He looked into Sabrina’s face, studying her almost as closely as she’d been studying the painting. And maybe it was in her head but it was as though her own disappointments from the day were being mirrored in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, miss,” the man said. “But Mr. Montoya doesn’t like for people to get so close to the artwork.”

“Yes, right, of course,” Sabrina said. “My apologies.”

She stepped back from the painting and felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She dug it out as the man with the badge walked away from her. She scanned the notification on the screen that said her flight would be delayed until midnight.

Perfect. Now she could attend Montoya’s class. She was eager to. For she was confident that Daniel Montoya did not paint La Huérfana, but maybe he had a left-handed student who did.

***

Sabrina streaked paint onto the canvas absent-mindedly. She was only half-listening to Montoya give instructions. Thankfully as a last minute addition to the class her seat was at the very back where she could observe the other students in front of her. It didn’t take long to see that there was only one left-handed painter. His canvas was angled away from her but he held his palette in his right hand and his brush in his left.

As the session drew to a close, Montoya made his rounds to give feedback. “Did you say you're studying painting?” he asked skeptically as he surveyed Sabrina’s work.

“Yes.”

“Well, don’t pigeonhole yourself, city bird. I’m sure there are other options,” he remarked before moving on.

Sabrina felt heat rise to her cheeks but she reminded herself why she was here: to find the real artist behind the painting that had entranced her.

As soon as Montoya dismissed them Sabrina made a beeline for the left-handed painter’s canvas. All she found was more disappointment in sloppy brush strokes and poor color blending.

Feeling foolish for even getting her hopes up she followed Montoya and the other students out of the studio. She nodded and smiled at the security guard from earlier who clearly had his custodial hat on now as he cleaned the glass door and windows at the studio entrance. Apparently she’d been too focused on identifying peoples dominant sides, because an alarm went off in her head as she watched him wipe neat circles of cleaner onto the glass with his left hand.

Just as she was about to step out of the gallery she realized she was missing something. “Mr. Montoya,” she called out. “I left my camera in the studio.”

“Go back and retrieve it,” he said. “Martin is cleaning up, so the door will still be open.”

She walked back up to the studio. Martin was no longer at the entrance but the door swung open when she pulled the handle. She ventured in and stopped in her tracks. Martin stood at an easel, his back to her and his brush dancing across the canvas. The bowed face and hands of a praying woman were rendered in exquisite detail.

The studio door clanged and Martin whirled around to face her. There was a trace of fear in his eyes.

“It–it’s you,” Sabrina stuttered. “You painted La Huérfana.”

“No, no, Mr. Montoya painted La Huérfana,” Martin declared. “This one is his too. I shouldn’t be touching it.” He set his palette and brush on the table and stepped away from the easel.

Why would he lie? Why would he let Montoya take credit for his work? These questions raced through Sabrina’s mind, but they weren’t the right ones to ask. “La Huérfana, who is she?”

Until then Martin would not meet her eyes, but now he did. In a voice barely above a whisper he said, “My Paula. When she was a little girl, the only way I ever knew her. I haven’t seen her in fifteen years.”

Sabrina felt such an ache in her chest at his words. “What happened?”

“We were separated leaving Guatemala for the States. I’ve been searching for her ever since, but I haven’t found her. I shouldn’t have done it, but I started using Mr. Montoya’s paints after everyone was gone. Then one night he came back for something and caught me painting my Paula. ”

“Did he threaten you in some way to make you give it to him?”

Martin shook his head. “Mr. Montoya is a vain man, but he’s not a cruel one. It was my idea for him to take credit for the painting.”

“But why?” Sabrina asked incredulously.

“I am no one,” Martin said. “But people come to see the art of Daniel Montoya. My hope is that someday my Paula will see the painting and recognize herself in it, that she’ll come to a gallery or a museum where it is and I’ll finally find her.”

Sabrina thought back to the moment he looked into her face in the gallery. “Did you think I might be her?”

“Anytime I see a beautiful young woman like you walk through the door, my heart can’t help but hope,” said Martin. “And I have seen many. That is part of our deal, Mr. Montoya’s and mine. He helps pay for the private investigator to find Paula and I get to go to every exhibition of La Huérfana until I find her.”

Sabrina let the truth of it sink in.

“How did you know?” Martin asked. “How did you know Mr. Montoya did not paint La Huérfana?”

“You’re left-handed,” Sabrina replied. “None of the other paintings had brush strokes moving upward from the lower right. At least that’s how I knew for sure. But I was suspicious because La Huérfana had…she had more soul than all the others. Mr. Montoya said she was from his imagination, but I knew she had to be someone very important to the artist.”

“You know this from experience, don’t you?”

Sabrina nodded.

“Show me.” He nodded to her portfolio bag.

Sabrina opened the bag and pulled out her prints. One by one she laid them out for Martin to see: the violinist, the reader, the girl in the puddle, and finally the boy with the guitar.

Without hesitation Martin picked up the final print and held it closer to his face. “Who is he?”

“My brother.”

“Is he lost like my Paula?”

Sabrina shook her head, “No, he’s not lost. But he’s gone home to a place I cannot follow yet.” Tears began to stream down her cheeks.

Martin’s eyes were beginning to water too. He sniffed and pointed to the canvas of the praying woman. “It is the same for my love, Camilla. But I promised her before she left that I would find our Paula even if it took the rest of my life. I know it isn’t fair of me to ask, but will you keep our secret?”

Sabrina gazed into Martin’s glistening eyes. “For now. Until you find your Paula. Then the world should know La Huérfana belongs to you.”

Martin smiled. “When I find her I’ll never wish to see La Huérfana again. I will have the real thing because my little girl will finally be home.”